


Searching For Old Selves

by jeffersonhairpin



Series: No Lies, Just Love [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, Flashbacks, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, One Shot, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25143940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeffersonhairpin/pseuds/jeffersonhairpin
Summary: He’s just about to pull the duvet back to rouse his sick husband when he hears him murmuring something, pausing to hear what he’s saying.“’M sorry… know it scares you,” he slurs mournfully.And it takes Oliver a moment to figure out why the words tug at his heart so painfully, but when he does, he’s instantly transported back to another, infinitely worse time and place.Home a time after his mother's funeral, Elio is sick, and as Oliver is taking care of him it brings back memories of a time when he was sick in New York so long ago, when he was still in the throes of his addiction.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: No Lies, Just Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619161
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Searching For Old Selves

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, came up with this idea at work and was frantically writing down bits and pieces all shift, my customers got sad me that day :'))
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well ❤️ It's angsty but it ends happily I promise
> 
> (Song the title is from is [The Past is a Grotesque Animal](https://youtu.be/f3RAI8Ntamw?t=357) by of Montreal)

“Elio?” echoes through the house.

A weak groan in response, coming from the bedroom.

“Are you okay?” coming closer, down the hall.

A muffled negative.

“Elio what’s wrong?” Oliver asks, worried to find the house so still after being away at a conference all week.

He’d been expecting to find a welcome-home afternoon tea or perhaps to find Elio meditating – something Elio used to laugh at, but which he now finds extremely helpful since the relapse at the villa.

 _Though after years during which he drank little but wasn’t completely sober, can it really be called a relapse,_ Oliver wonders as he makes his way through the house.

He doesn’t find food or meditation though, and it makes him worry as he enters the room. Though he found some peace before they left Italy, Elio has had trouble sleeping since, so it worries Oliver to discover him in bed at three in the afternoon.

“Unf,” Elio sighs, finally lifting his head as he enters the room.

“…I’m sick,” he finally croaks, his statement affirmed by the stuffy nasality to his tone.

“Oh,” Oliver says sympathetically as relief floods him, sitting down on the side of the bed and running a hand through his love’s tangled mop. He feels his forehead for a moment, discovering what is definitely a building fever. “When did it start?” he asks.

“Yesterday,” Elio pouts with half-shut eyes, looking about five years old despite being closer to fifty now. “I feel like _ass_ and I _know_ it’s going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Oliver says, smiling at seeing his husband again despite his sorry state. “Do you think you need a doctor? Do you want some chicken soup?”

“No doctor. Yes soup,” Elio says, still pouting as he buries his face back under the heavy duvet. 

He’s never dealt very well with being sick… at times when he’s used to feeling well most days, anyway.

“Okay,” Oliver smiles, patting his shoulder and getting up to get started. “I’ll have to go to the store to get ingredients and flu medicine, will you be okay while I’m gone?”

Another groan is his only response, so Oliver assumes it’ll be fine.

When he comes back two hours later with the bowl of expertly made soup Elio is still buried under the blanket, only fast asleep now. 

He’s just about to pull the duvet back to rouse his husband when he hears him murmuring something, pausing to hear what he’s saying.

“’M sorry… know it scares you,” he slurs mournfully.

And it takes Oliver a moment to figure out why the words tug at his heart so painfully. 

When he does, he’s instantly transported back to another, infinitely worse time and place.

Oliver is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, staring down at Elio as he retches into the bucket beside him.

Usually if he were throwing up he’d be doing it into a toilet or a sink, but he’s too weak right now to do much of anything beyond leaning over towards the bucket.

Oliver isn’t sure whether he’s throwing up because… well, he always does, or if it’s because he’s come down with a vomiting bug rather than just the flu they thought he had. Either way the sickly colour of his skin is making him worry.

Sitting down on the side of the bed Oliver pulls the bucket back as tears begin to fall from Elio’s eyes.

“I’m so tired,” he cries, tiny involuntary sobs shaking his shoulders.

Oliver can see why he would be – not only does he have some horrible flu, by Oliver’s count he hasn’t had a drink since late last night. It’s nearing midday and he hasn’t been strong enough to get out of bed for one yet.

“I know you’re tired,” he says softly when Elio has calmed a little and begun to slip out of consciousness like he’s been doing all morning.

But then he coughs and wakes himself up… terrible hacking coughs that shake his undernourished frame. 

“Oliver,” he gasps when he’s done. “Oliver, can you please get—”

“No,” he says suddenly as he stands, knowing what he’s about to ask. 

_“Please,”_ he pants, desperation in his heavy-lidded eyes, slowly opening further. 

“No, you’re sick. It’ll make it worse,” he says tightly, though he knows logically it isn’t true.

He knows that Elio’s withdrawal will be what's making it worse, but he doesn’t want to give him what he wants, doesn’t want to _hand him_ his poison – he’s never given it to him before, not beyond maybe passing a glass of wine back and forth on their movie nights.

“I _need_ it,” Elio insists, panting in exertion as he tries to sit up. 

“No,” Oliver says again, leaving the room. “If you want it you’re going to have to go and get it yourself.”

 _“Please!”_ Elio calls as Oliver leaves the room, not knowing what his plan is. 

He knows that eventually he will have to give Elio something if he can’t get up – alcohol withdrawal can kill, even without whatever illness has taken Elio down today… 

He just can’t do it right now.

He’s been at the table for a few moments when he hears a thump in the other room, but he’s too tired and stressed to investigate. 

It’ll probably be fine… He just needs some time to himself. 

But then he hears something dragging along the floor in the bedroom, making slow progress towards the door.

After a few more drags it comes into view, and it’s Elio, crawling slowly to the kitchen because he’s too sick to stand, his thin duvet wrapped around his shivering shoulders.

Oliver watches in horrified captivation as his love agonisingly slowly crawls to the kitchen cabinet and, with unsteady hands, pulls out a bottle of his cheap whisky, shakily unscrewing the lid and taking stuttering, uneven pulls.

Oliver realises in that moment how strong of a hold this thing has on him. 

He knew – _obviously_ he knew that it was bad, _really_ bad, but… The sight of Elio crawling from the bedroom to the kitchen for his bottle is just… 

Wretched. Demented. _Wrong._

If ever he thought Elio just _wanted_ to drink every day, instead of _needing_ to…

_Christ._

He often wonders what a younger Elio would do if he could see a sight like this, and know that his father’s American summer intern was ultimately the cause… He would never have spoken a word to Oliver.

When he’s done drinking he gasps in exhaustion and relief, and places the bottle on the ground without the lid, almost tipping it over as he collapses onto the floor.

“I hate you,” he gasps around his wheezing breaths.

And at that Oliver’s grief solidifies into something bitter, as he becomes exhausted himself.

“No you don’t,” he says, his tone dead, and done, as he closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “You hate yourself. That’s why you do this… You just fucking hate yourself, so much.”

He gives a brittle huff at the end, and at that Elio pauses his breath for a moment, leaving cold silence in the apartment… And then he frowns in pain and turns over as though to protect himself from the words, taking longer, deeper breaths to cope.

Oliver’s expression crumples after a few seconds as he rushes over.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he says, desperately apologetic. “I didn’t mean it.”

But Elio just shakes his head and closes his eyes, horribly accepting.

“Yes you did. It’s okay,” he says, too tired to say more – tired of conversation, of being sick, of life. 

He slowly pulls the blanket tighter around him, waiting for the alcohol to take effect and hopefully make him feel a little better. 

Oliver sits on the floor with him and rubs his back, watching as some of the tremors ease, as the withdrawal slowly fades away.

He should have just given him what he needed, and they wouldn’t be here.

He knows he needs to put his feelings aside if he’s going to be any help but sometimes he just…

He picks up one of Elio’s hands as his love falls into unconsciousness again, to try to comfort him. As he massages his fingers to get some warmth into them, he discovers weak, chipped nails that he’s never really noticed the state of before… undoubtedly a result of Elio’s malnutrition, ever-worsened by the alcohol constantly trickling into his veins.

“God, Elio,” he despairs quietly, running his fingers over the nails. “What are you _doing_ to yourself…”

It’s silent for a moment before Elio whispers, “’M sorry,” making him jump. 

Their eyes just barely meet, with Elio’s unable to open all the way in his sickness-induced exhaustion.

“’M sorry,” he repeats slowly, mumbling. “I know it scares you.”

And for a moment Oliver just breathes.

“…It _does_ scare me, Elio,” he finally implores when the silence becomes too much. “You’re going to _die_ from this if you don’t stop, and that terrifies me. Why isn’t that enough for you to try, doesn’t it scare _you?”_

“Please don’t do this,” Elio begs softly. “I’m so tired, I can’t do this right now.”

“Why don’t you just _try_ to stop?” Oliver insists, ignoring his pleas as his frustration boils over. “Is it not real to you? Does it not scare you at _all?”_

 _“No, okay?”_ Elio finally snaps, more strength in his voice than there’s been all morning as he looks up resentfully. “It doesn’t fucking scare me that I could die, now can you please just let me sleep?”

In the silence following the angry confession Oliver just slumps, giving up. 

_Why did I even ask,_ he thinks sullenly, upset that he let his fear control him again. _Of course it doesn’t scare him that he could die, he doesn’t want to_ live _in the first place._

And then he thinks, _God, how can I help him? This is all my fault…_

After a few moments in which he utterly fails to sleep through the knowledge of how he’s hurting Oliver, Elio looks up and sees his forlorn expression, reaching up to take his hand and holding as tight as he can manage in his current state.

…And as their eyes meet, they know they’re both in the same boat. 

No matter what, they’re in the same, slowly sinking boat, until Elio decides to plug the hole or drown them both. 

And he hasn’t made his decision yet.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers earnestly again, though he has no tears to cry. 

“I know,” Oliver sighs, regrouping again slowly. 

He can do this. He can keep it together for as long as it takes. For Elio.

Always for Elio.

“Come on,” he says gently, pulling his love to sit up, and then lifting him into his arms and taking him to the bed. 

Oliver has been so caught up in the haunting memory that he doesn’t notice his current Elio stirring, trying to lift the heavy weighted blanket that helps him sleep better nowadays.

“Oliver?” he asks, confused by the fever and by the near-darkness of the room after closing his eyes to daylight.

“I’m here,” Oliver says, trying to keep his voice from wavering as he places the soup on the bedside table.

He’s felt so protective of Elio since the villa… Their dynamic had gravitated over time to equality in all aspects, but since Elio had to slowly watch his mother die, since he fell back into all those terrible thoughts and feelings and coping mechanisms that only made things worse…

Oliver can’t help but try to protect him, and Elio can’t help but allow himself to be protected. He came out of it before coming back to the States, but his confidence is so shaken in so many ways…

He still wants to be Oliver’s protector when he sees him looking like he does in that moment though – things may have changed but this never goes away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, reaching up unsteadily to smooth his husband’s lined brow.

“It’s nothing,” Oliver sighs at first, but he knows he’s not fooling anyone, least of all Elio.

“Tell me,” Elio says hoarsely. 

Taking a moment to stall and calm himself before speaking, Oliver runs a hand through his love’s fever-damp hair and looks into his half-mast eyes. 

“You said something while you were sleeping, that reminded me of a time when you were really sick… before. In New York. You crawled to the kitchen cabinet because I wouldn’t bring anything to you.”

Oliver is careful not to say what he was crawling for or what he wouldn’t bring him. They don’t often say words like ‘alcohol’ or ‘addiction’ in the house nowadays – it’s just easier not to bring it up.

“…I remember,” Elio murmurs after a moment, curling up a little in shame. “I think I was dreaming about it and that's why I said it.”

He was doing well with how he felt about the past before, but since the villa… He’s finding it much more difficult to separate his current self from who he has been lately than he has in a long time. 

It’s not unusual that he spins on a dime like this and gets sucked into a thought spiral.

“Don’t be like that,” Oliver reassures gently, trying to coax him back out. “It’s just a memory. It’s over, that’s not you.”

“But it _is_ me,” Elio disagrees quietly. “…Sometimes. It wasn’t someone else doing those things, I’ve _proven_ that I can still just fall right back into it—”

“Stop it,” Oliver says, more firmly, for himself and for Elio. “You’re just tired, and you’re sick,” he says. “Tomorrow you’ll feel better and things will look better. And we’ll have something nice for breakfast, and you can do your meditation if you want and we’ll go for a walk, and at night we’ll watch a movie.”

“…Okay,” he agrees after a long silence, sighing exhaustedly. “I want French toast.”

“Okay, I’ll make you French toast,” Oliver smiles, glad to hear him volunteering something grounded in the here and now. “Do you want your soup now?” he asks, trying to keep them headed in a more positive direction and hopefully get some food in Elio to give him some strength.

But Elio just asks, “What soup?” with his eyelids heavy again. 

He’s a little more forgetful now than he used to be, which obviously worries him with what happened to his mother, but his memory isn’t this bad.

“Are you sure you don’t need a doctor or something?” Oliver frowns as he feels his forehead again, considering his options.

“No doctor. Yes soup,” Elio says again, unknowingly repeating himself in a way that makes Oliver’s worry relax a little as he laughs softly. 

_Calm down, it’s just the fever._

He’ll check on him sometime in the night, but it will be fine, he reasons, aiding his husband in sitting up and then slowly helping him get through as much of the soup as he can before calling it quits three-quarters of the way through. 

Things are harder now than they’ve been in the twenty years between New York and the villa last year, there’s no question about it. Elio’s depression colours things more easily, he has to say no when somebody offers him even a small glass of wine with dinner, they have to avoid drinking venues in general now to keep everything in the clear which is _hard_ for Elio…

Sometimes he finds himself wishing he could go back to before everything went wrong in Italy, or better yet, to before everything went wrong in New York, wishing more than _anything_ that he could just _be someone he will never be again…_

But they have the resources to deal with it and make it easier. And Elio has the tools to recognise when he needs help before it gets bad now. Oliver has the tools to know when he needs to stop his love from spiralling, and he doesn’t feel powerless in this anymore.

There are things they can’t do, but they’re not dancing around the edge of things going wrong. There are more challenges, but they’re so much stronger against them now than they were before…

Things are different but it’s a mixed bag, and they’re going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me a comment, they make me very happy and I read them to my mum lol ❤️


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